


Born in a Storm

by LectorEl



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: American History has some ugly stuff, Gen, Jack is a spirit, Phillip is small and serious and adorable, Pitch does not mean well but he's pragmatic, Pitch is in so much denial, Single Fatherhood, Spirits and politics, The guardians are based on largely european/western myths, and that means he can be a scary ruthless SOB, do not piss off spirits with power over weather, like the genocide of the native americans, or they might decide to kill you with a blizzard, pay no attention to any evidence to the contrary, the guardians mean well but they have no clue, which limits their influence unfortunately
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for <a href="http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=1414375#cmt1414375">rotg_kink</a>.<br/>Only the desperate go out on the nights when snow storms rage. Desperate people like the pregnant woman Jack found, too late to help, bringing her child into the world as she left it. </p><p>Phillip 'Pip' Frost has his Da, the wind, and a strange presence in the clearing deep in the Burgess woods as family, and the winter wilds as his home. But the world is bigger than that, and Phillip and Jack can't remain isolated from it forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Jack hated these nights. When the winds are high and the snow drives all but the desperate indoors. Because there is almost always someone desperate, and it never ends well._  
  
 _“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kneeling in the shadows with the woman’s corpse. He can’t do much, but he can remember her, as sick as it makes him feel. Someone should, and Jack is the only one here to do it._  
  
 _There’s a newborn infant in her cooling arms, still slick with blood and its skin is raw, red. It wailed its distress and Jack winces._  
  
 _“Wind...” Jack started, and trailed off. The least he can do is end it quickly. He gathered frost across his fingertips, and knelt in front of the woman. The newborn’s eyes are blue- **infant blue, they’ll probably darken later** , a part of his mind murmured. Jack stared, entranced. He’s never seen something so young._  
  
 _And then the impossible happens. The infant’s eyes seem to snap to Jack’s face, and it wailed louder. Jack reached without thinking, lifting and cradling it against his chest in a move that felt like second nature. The implications hit him a few moments later, and he stared at the strange, improbable creature in his arms._  
  
***  
  
Philip skips over the surface of the frozen pond, his father hovering anxiously behind.  
  
“Don’t go too far out from the bank,” Da orders. “And if you hear cracking-”  
  
“I _know_ , Da,” Philip says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a toddler any more, I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I know you can, Pip,” Da says, grinning sheepishly. “But I worry.”  
  
Philip hugs Da around the waist, and then pushed him towards the Burgess settlement. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”  
  
“Careful, he says. I’ve heard that before,” he hears Da mutter under his breath, before the wind whips him away. Philip snickers.  
  
He amuses himself by stalking a few winter birds around the pond, trying to see how close he could get without them startling. He’s almost within grabbing distance when the stomp of heavy boots sends them flying.  
  
Philip startles, and is up a tree within moments. The man isn’t Da, and Philip is frightened. He’s never talked to anyone besides Da. He’s barely even seen people besides Da, and that was always at a distance.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Philip demands from his place up in the branches. The man stares quizzically. He’s dressed all wrong for the weather, Philip thinks scornfully. He'll be soaked within hours in that getup. “Well?”  
  
“Hunting,” the man answers after a moment. His eyes linger on Philip’s long, tangled hair, and his light coat. “And you, child?”  
  
“Waiting for my Da.” Philip looks at the man again, seeing his gun, and snickers. “Good luck with hunting in _this_ weather. Storm’s coming soon.”  
  
The man looks askance at him. “Sky’s clear as glass. There’s no storm to be had in this weather.”  
  
Philip shrugs. “Suit yourself. I intend to be out of the wet when it comes.” The hunter shakes his head, and continues on.  
  
Later that evening, as the blizzard raged and Da and Philip were safe in their little shelter, Philip tells him about his encounter at the lake. Da’s lips thin.  
  
“If he’s lucky, he’ll live to know better next time,” he says, and ruffles Philip’s hair. “I think we need to move north a little early this year. That okay with you?”  
  
“Can we go ice-fishing once we’re there?”   
  
Da nods. “I don’t see why not."


	2. Chapter 2

There are things Philip doesn’t know about the world. He knows Da, and he knows their lake, and their little shelter by it, and their isolated cabin way up north. He knows how to tell a storm’s coming from the taste of the wind. He knows how to judge the thickness of ice in a single glance, and the likelihood of sleet or snow or hail by the glimmer of the clouds.

But he doesn’t know why nobody can see Da but him, or why his skin is so much warmer. He doesn’t know what summer is, not really, and the only green and growing things he’s known are the plants of his clearing and evergreens around the lake. He doesn’t know what Christmas is, or Easter. He’s never left a tooth beneath his pillow for collecting, and doesn’t remember his dreams.

Da is everything Philip needs. He’s the one who rocks Philip to sleep when the storms howl, the one who taught him to gut a fish. (Though Philip was the one who had to figure out how to light a fire.) They’re not like the people living huddled up in their little towns, with their unchanging, predictable lives.

The only cycle Da and Philip heed is the way winter gives way to spring, and fall gives way to winter. Philip doesn’t understand the idea of holidays. Why box in your joy to a single point in time? Why only celebrate a few days out of the year?

He and Da don’t do it like that. Da gets Philip little presents when the opportunity comes up, no special reason, just because. Philip does the same for Da, little wooden carvings usually, or pretty river stones, or feathers.

Which is why, one morning late in the season, the very cusp of spring, Philip isn’t expecting it when he trips over a brightly painted egg. He stares at it for a few moments, and then pokes it tentatively. It doesn’t _feel_ like any kind of egg Philip knows, not chicken or duck or goose or even the thin, sky-blue shell he found deep under a rotting log once.

It’s pretty. Really, really pretty. Almost as pretty as Da’s frost, and Philip wants to keep it. But they’re going north _tonight_ , and every year it’s a little harder for Da and the winds to carry Philip with them. He shouldn’t go picking up extra weight just because.

...But it’s so pretty. Philip looks around, and scoops up the egg before darting back to their little shelter. Da’s still asleep, because it’s almost spring and his father gets tired easy around spring. Philip kneels in front of his small pile of belongings, and starts pulling out things he’s willing to discard.

There’s not a lot. A few feathers, a handful of half-finished wood carvings he’d hoped to salvage, and a single torn-apart sock that had been a raccoon’s plaything for a while. It’s not enough. The egg is heavy, and Philip can’t keep it. Da pushes himself so hard to carry Philip north. It’s not fair of Philip to make it harder just for a pretty bauble.  


He sighs through his nose, dejected, and reluctantly takes the egg back outside. He doesn’t want to put it back where he got it- Da will see it when he wakes up, and then he’ll bring it to Philip. Philip’s no good at lying, he’d never be able to convince Da he didn’t want it. And then Da would insist on bringing it with them, because he was _stupid_ when it came to Philip.

Philip finds a little hollow in the roots of one of the grey trees, and tucks the egg into it. With one last hungry look, he turns away and goes back to the shelter.

“You’re up early, Pip,” Da says, blinking sleep from his eyes when Philip crawls under the blanket with him.

“Not much longer,” Philip promises, tucking his face into Da’s neck.

Neither of them are awake when their shelter is invaded. Bunny frowns disapprovingly at the head of white hair he sees sticking out of the blankets alongside the tyke’s auburn. There’s always a couple of adults who insist on ruining things for the kids, but it’s especially irritating when it’s so bloody obvious that the tyke doesn’t have much in way of personal belongings.

“Pah, nothing but a bitter old man,” Bunny grumbles. He doesn’t want to get the tyke in trouble, but it ain’t right he can’t keep his own easter egg. Bunny slides a few pieces of toffee into the pocket of the tiny coat hanging by the ramshackle entrance. Better than nothing.

He looks over the tiny, run down old lean-to, and spits. He’s going to have to talk to North about this.


	3. Chapter 3

Summer is a busy time for them, even though Da doesn’t have much work to do. Da doesn’t need to eat every day, but Philip does, and while there’s plenty of food around during the warmer months, they have to plan ahead for fall and winter.

Da does as much of the work as he can, but some of it, like smoking meat or drying fruit leather, needs heat. Philip tries to do as much of that while Da’s asleep or away as possible, because he always gets a sick, guilty look when he sees Philip working.

Da is an idiot when it comes to Philip. That’s as much a constant as the sun and the moon and Da himself. Philip never expects it to change.

Philip sometimes wonders what will change, though, once he’s grown more. Just this morning, the first of his milk teeth came out, and it’s an unwelcome reminder of what’s coming. Will he get as big as the men in the villages, bulky and slow and never lifting their faces to the sky? Philip doesn’t want to be like that. He tries not to eat too much- the wind won’t be able to carry him much longer already.

Philip’s scared of the future, just a little. Adulthood is strange and unfamiliar, and he wants no part in it.

“What’re you frowning about, Pip?” Da asked, pulling Philip’s attention outward.

Philip shrugs. “Nothing much. Wondering if we can get salmon this year.”

“I don’t think so,” Da says regretfully. “There’s a warm snap going on.” He looks unhappy, and Philip hugs him impulsively.

“It’s no big deal, Da. I swear.” Philip presses his cheek into the frost-covered fabric of Da’s cloak. He doesn’t want to lose this. He doesn’t want Da to leave him behind.

***

“Da!” Philip shrieks, leaping away from his bed. He can’t help it. There’d been something moving in his bed, and it'd had sharp little claws and probably had sharp little teeth and it had been in his bed.

Da comes running. “Pip? What-” Da cuts himself off as Philip practically throws himself at his father, trembling.

“There was something in here,” he whimpers, clutching Da’s shirt. “I could feel it crawling on me.”

Da pulls him closer at that, looking around the cabin with narrow eyes. “Did it bite you? Sting you?”

Philip shakes his head. “No. But it was on me. It was big, too. Like the rats.” They’d lost a shelter once to a nest of rats, and Philip had been terrified of them ever since.

“I can’t see anything,” Da says. “But how about we spend tonight in the tree, alright? We’ll take a closer look in the morning.”

Philip nods, fervently, still clinging as close as he could. The north wind stirred around their feet, and swept them up into the tall evergreen nearest to the cabin. Years ago, before they’d built the cabin, Da had cut away several branches so there was a little hollow in the foliage, with just enough room for them to sleep.

“Go to sleep, Pip. I’ll make sure nothing gets near you,” Da promises, sweeping his hand over Philip’s eyes. Philip nods, curling up in Da’s lap. He’s already tired again, and sleep pulls him under.

In the morning, like Da promised, they look the cabin over careful. Everything gets picked up and shuffled around, and they look at every single nook and cranny. Nothing seems to be out of place. Philip still can’t make himself sleep in the bed again, and Da ends up taking it apart to use in shoring up the roof. He sleeps better when it’s just him, Da, and a few blankets anyway.

It takes them several days to notice that Philip’s milk tooth had disappeared.


	4. Chapter 4

Another winter, and they’re back down south.  Da sticks mostly to the states up and down the eastern coast, though occasionally they’ll trek past the mountains into Indian territory. Philip likes it when they head that way.

The Indians are all very different from one another, and they speak languages Philip doesn’t understand. But he and Da are a lot more like the Indians than they are like the Americans. Philip thinks he looks like them, just a little.

He looks more like them than he does Da, anyway.

They’d planned on getting out to the far coast this year. Philip’s seen trade goods that have come from the tribes there, and he wanted to see the people who made them.  But it looks like that’s not happening.

“Sorry, Pip,” Da apologizes, setting him down. They’d landed awkwardly, nothing like the wind’s usual grace. “I think you have to sit this one out. I don’t think the wind can get both of us there in time.”

“It’s okay,” Philip promises, forcing himself not to cling. “You’ll be back soon?”

“Three days at the most,” Da says, and kneels. “I don’t like it either, Pip. But-" 

“It’s what you do.” Pip forces himself to smile. “It’s _fine_ , Da.  Winter can’t get called off just because of me.”

Da strokes his cheek. “You’re a good kid, Pip. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You’re a good dad,” Philip says, hugging him. “Get going. The sooner you leave, the sooner you get back.”

“I’ll bring back something interesting,” Da promises, and he’s off. The wind tosses him into the sky, graceful as a hawk on the stoop, carrying him to far off places Philip can’t follow.

His stomach gives a growl of discontent. Philip ignores it. He’ll eat later. Tomorrow, maybe.

It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s not a little kid anymore, he doesn’t need Da to hold his hand every minute of the day. All the same, he goes to bed early, with the setting sun. As always, his sleep is deep and dreamless, with nothing to disturb him. He never dreams.

Philip wakes before dawn. He makes a hasty breakfast of dried apples, and scrambles up to the very top of a nearby tree. He loves sunrise. And sunrise above their lake is the best of all. The light filters through the trees, across the frozen surface of the lake, painting everything in shades of red and orange. It’s beautiful, and it makes Philip feel so _alive_.

He’d had half-formed plans to work on one of his carvings today, but he discards them. The air is crisp and the sky is clear, it’s much too nice a day to waste hunched over a piece of wood. Da has the wind, and he flies.

Philip runs. Barefoot and reckless, following the deer trails through the woods he’s known since he was baby.  He pushes himself until he’s breathless and gasping, laughing in sheer elation. The clearing he stops in is warmer than the surrounding woods, with springy grass dotted with wildflowers instead of snow.

He found this place years ago, and it’s his secret. It’s always warm in this clearing. There’s a small pond near the center, and a few berry bushes that always have fruit, and it’s peaceful. There’s something special about it, something magical, and Philip always has the sense that the only reason he can find it is because he’s allowed to. It’s as if there’s a person here. Or maybe not here- at least, not _just_ here-but more present than she is in other places.

“Hi,” Philip says, when he gets his breath back. “I haven’t been back here in a while, have I? Sorry about that.” The light ripples over the water, like a shrug.

“I know you don’t mind, but I don’t want to be rude.”

The bushes rustle pointedly, and Philip laughs.

“Okay, okay! Point taken, I’ll stop doing that.” It’s nice to talk with someone who isn’t Da, just for the change.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and now the plot really gets rolling. (Mwahahaha.)

Philip had felt weak this morning, when Da had woken him up, but he'd ignored it. He’d just meant to get some fish from the makeshift icebox they kept near the lake, before the storm hit. He’d been tired, and he sat down for a few minutes.

He’d woken up when the wind started screaming.

He’s cold. The thought runs on a broken loop though Philip’s mind, as he staggers home to their winter shelter. He’s cold, cold down to the marrow, and he can’t-

Thoughts scatter as he stumbles, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

***

Jack alights on the roof of the shelter, and realizes immediately something is wrong. The storm is high, and Pip can read the sky too well for it to have come upon him unexpectedly.

Pip should be here, but there’s no sign of his son. Pip’s shoes and coat are gone, but everything else is where they left it, just that afternoon.

“Pip?” Jack shouts. “Pip, come out right now!”

There’s no reply. Dread knots in his stomach. This is the sort of weather that kills. The sort of weather that Pip’s mother died in.

“Philip!”

Something’s happened. An accident, a hungry predator that thought a small boy would make a filling meal, a lost hunter mistaking his child for prey.

He’s hurt. He’s trapped.

He’s dead.

Jack never should have left. No one will die from lack of snow, and he left his only child, his only son, alone.

Jack curse himself for a fool.

“Find him,” he begs the north wind, already running for the lake where Pip so often plays.

Please, let him be alive. Jack will do anything.

Just let him be alive.

“Philip!” His voice echoes, and there is no reply.

***

Philip wakes, head pounding, chills racking his body. “Da?” he asks, tongue clumsy in his mouth.

He looks around, and feels cold for a new reason. He doesn’t recognize this place. The ceiling is too high. The room is too big. It’s dark and dimly lit, the colors muted. There’s an unfamiliar blanket draped over him, scratchy and old. The fabric that isn’t covered in half-unraveled embroidery feels like it will crumble beneath his fingertips.

“Da?” he asks again, plaintively, but without much hope. Da wouldn’t leave him alone in a strange place. Not if he knew where Philip was.

Philip stands, letting the blanket fall back on the narrow, old-fashioned rope bed. He wavers as black overtakes his vision and nearly falls.

He bites down on bottom lip, and lurches toward the wall. Leaning against it makes a few of the black spots dancing in his vision go away, at least.

This close, he can see what he missed in the gloom.

The walls are-his head pounds, and Philip gasps softly, the sound swallowed up by the emptiness. He rests his head against the wall, closing his eyes, and waits for the worst of it to pass.

After several long moments, Philip tentatively opens his eyes, and tries to focus. The walls are some sort of char-black stone, equal parts natural formation and intricate carving.

He traces the whorls of one, trying to make sense of the pattern, the neat lines of delicate engraving somehow working with the cracks that the stone is riddled with.

It feels like-

Philip’s thoughts are all scattered. It’s hard to focus.

It burns at him, that’s the only way his hazed mind can describe it. Like Da, or the older shelters where they’ve spent the most time, or the clearing and its presence. Sharper-edged than those, and angrier, soaked in bitter, over-brewed frustration like the last dregs of tea, left to sit too long. Just as sad, though, just as hurting-lonely-tired, but without the softened edge of occasional happiness.

Is everyone like Da just as isolated as he is? Philip had the vague idea that most people like Da must live in villages and towns somewhere, just like people like Philip did. That Da is an exception, like Philip is an exception.

But there’s the presence of the clearing, and now this echo of someone imprinted on the stone.

Maybe… maybe Philip was wrong. Maybe everyone like Da is alone. The thought makes him stomach twist, the same queasy mix of sickness and grief he’d felt when he’d stumbled across the decaying corpse of a late-season fawn.

He doesn’t like that thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Phillip tries to be smart about this. He's in a new place, and he didn’t know where this place is, or where he and Da’s squat was in relationship to it. There's probably somebody like Da around here, if the feel of it's true. So he couldn’t be in too much danger. Da, the clearing, the wind, they all treat him well. Spirits are safer, more reliable, than humans.

So the question is, what does he do? Wait in this little room, till whoever rescued him returned? See if he could find his way out? 

He laughs at himself, shaking his head. Fine thoughts for someone who could barely walk. He can barely see his hand when he held his arm at full extension, and his head aches. How does he plan to leave, rolling along, bumping into walls like a blind worm?

Da would laugh himself sick, Phillip thinks. But what else can he do? He doesn’t think the spirit, whoever or whatever it is, will intentionally harm him. But it might not understand that humans needed things spirits didn’t.

He rises to his feet slowly, and leans against the wall. The engravings catch under his fingertips and he traces their path as he edges forward. There has to be a door around here somewhere, right?

***

“Phillip!” Jack shouts, the wind carrying his voice as far as possible. “Phillip, come out, right now!”

Nothing. No sign of dark hair or rough homespun clothing. His son is missing. Lost, maybe injured, maybe sick, with nobody beside Jack and the wind who knew he needed help.

“God’s tongue,” Jack swears with quiet fervor. The fear he feels bubbles under his breastbone, heat that makes it impossible to stay still, to sink into despair that tugs at his mind. He needs to find his son.

It’s been nearly a day. Pip knows how to survive a storm. Jack’s taught him how to navigate the worst winter weather, and he’s not the type to panic. He’s going to start by assuming Pip found shelter of some kind. Later – much, much later, in a future Jack hopes never comes – if he doesn’t find Pip, he’ll start looking for a body. But right now, Jack’ll approach the situation like Pip’s alive.

“Start from the beginning,” Jack reminds himself, echoing one of his common admonishments to his son. Pip was missing from the shelter. He’d gone somewhere from the shelter. Where did he go, and why?

***

Eventually, Phillip manages to limp his way to a doorway, pausing to rest every five minutes. 

He looks through the doorway, and reminds himself Da doesn’t like it when he swears. He really wants too, though.

It’s just more black stone, as far as he can see, a senseless tangle of stairways and platforms, with great gaping pits of nothingness in between. The light comes from a few flickering torches, no sunlight or starlight that he can see.

“Hello?” Phillip calls tentatively. “Is anyone there?”

He thinks he sees something move in the shadows along the eastern wall. “Anyone? Please?”

A nicker, like the drafthorses Da and Phillip sometimes watch on the roads. He turns, and nearly bumps into a pitch black horse.

“Oh!” Phillip reaches out, entranced. This horse resembles a drafthorse only in the way the sun resembles a candle. He’s never seen a more beautiful creature. “May I touch you?”

Another nicker, and the horse butts its head against Phillip’s chest. Phillip giggles, and slides his hands into the horse’s glossy mane. It’s cold, like Da is, and its flesh is strange and not-quite-right. Almost grainy beneath his fingertips, like sand.

“You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” Phillip smiles. “I bet you know that already, though.”

A snort, accompanied by what Phillip swears is an eyeroll. “You know, all right. What are you, I wonder? You feel like Da does, a little. Are you a winter spirit? The winter night?”

“Hardly,” a voice drawls from somewhere behind them both. Phillip flinches and tries to twist around at the same time. If not for his new friend, he probably would have fallen. Instead, the horse catches Phillip’s shirt in his teeth, pulling him back to his feet. Phillip pats the horse’s neck while staring at the pale man who’d emerged from the shadows.

“You’re… really, really tall,” Phillip says. The man stares at Phillip, eyebrow arching sharply.

“And you are a very strange child,” he retorts. Phillip shrugs.

“Da says the same thing. I’m Phillip Frost. Who are you?” He offers the man his hand after a moment, like he’s seen people in the villages do.

More staring, this time at his hand. Phillip’s smile wilts, and he’s just about to put his hand down when the man sighs. He shakes Phillip’s hand, once, sharply.

“Pitch Black.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Can you take me home please, Pitch?” Phillip asks, “My Da is probably worrying himself sick about me.”

Pitch shook his head. “I can return you to where I found you, but the storm makes that a very stupid idea.”

“How bad is it?” Phillip asks, looking around for a window. 

Pitch’s smile is odd-looking, almost mean. “Bad enough that it’s doing my job for me.”

“You’re a winter spirit, then?” Phillip asks. Pitch snorts, and ushers Phillip toward a long corridor.

“First my nightmare, now me. Is there is a reason you’re fixated on winter?”

“Hey!” Phillip protests, even as Pitch opens a door in the corridor suddenly and leads them what looks like the inside of a little cottage, only dusty and lacking windows. “I’m not _fixated_. You didn’t say I was wrong about your horse being winter, and you both feel the same.”

“Nightmare, child. Not a horse.”

“So what are you, then?”

“The boogeyman.”

Phillip bites his lip, looking around the old-fashioned room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pitch stops dead and looks at him. “You don’t believe in the _boogeyman_ , but you can see me.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Phillip corrects. Pitch’s eyebrows are making the climb back up his forehead.

“You-” Pitch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why did I miss this, again?”

“Miss what?”

“Never mind. I’m the spirit of fear.” And then Pitch mutters something under his breath, using language Da would scrub Phillip’s mouth out with soap for.

“Really? How does that work? I mean, Da makes it snow, but fear’s kind of…” Phillip gestures vaguely, not able to explain the instinctive difference. “Snow’s a solid thing, a one thing. It’s always ice, only in different shapes. Fear’s not like that. Fear’s-” he waves his hands helplessly.

Pitch gives him another one of those looks. “Fear is a range of emotional states, grouped in a convenient category because people like categories. It doesn’t exist outside of people’s minds.”

“Yeah, that.” Phillip grins at the man. “You’re really smart, you know.”

“I did know that, child,” Pitch says dryly. Phillip valiantly fights down the urge to giggle. Pitch and his horse – nightmare – are very similar. “Now, since you must suffer my company for a while longer, there are certain issues to address. Such as the fact that your hair looks like it’s hosting rats.”

***

Jack leans against a tree, torn between relief and further worry. By the far edge of their lake, barely visible through the snow whipped about by the howling cousins of the north wind and the dark of the new moon, there’s a deep dimple, just the size for it to have been made by his son, in the snow and a trail of disturbed snow leading up to it and away. Covered over with another layer of snow, but Jack sees the differences between the site and the undisturbed snow around it.

Someone walked up to Pip, god be merciful and let it have been Pip, where his son had fallen. Somehow. Jack frowns. Pip isn’t clumsy, what happened? Not important right now. So someone had waked up to his son, who had been lying covered in snow, because the dimple was deeper than the trail, picked him up, and carried him away. The trail fades out as it gets further away, and Jack can’t track it.

But someone has his son. Someone Jack hopes is just a kind passer-by, who isn’t going to hurt Pip. Who is going to bring his son _back_ once the storm is over. Because otherwise, he’s going to have to do some things he’ll regret later.

“Wind. Take me home, please.” Wind lifts him off his feet as gently as a spring breeze, carrying him back to the shelter. It rustles around his shoulders comfortingly, filling the tiny space with the sounds.

It’s not having his son back, but it makes the empty walls easier to live with. Jack lays down in the nest of blankets he shares with Pip, and tries to sleep.

“Da!”

Jack jerks upright, sunlight stabbing at his eyes. “Pip?”

His son tumbles into the shelter, practically flinging himself at Jack. “Da! I was worried. Are you alright?”

“Hey, I think that’s my question, not yours,” Jack says, and hugs his son tightly. Pip is fine. He’s more than fine, actually. Someone took the time to add another three inches of darkly-colored fabric to the ends of Pip’s shirt and pants, and somehow managed to detangle the mess that is Pip’s hair. “Where were you?”

“With me, after I found him collapsed,” a pale, amber-eyed man drawls, ducking into the shelter. “Do you know how much _hair_ your son has?”

“A lot?” Jack hazards a guess. Looking at Pip, Jack belatedly realizes that his son's previously shoulder-length hair has been not just detangled but braided, starting separately at his temples, joining at the base of his neck, and still somehow manages to end somewhere above his elbows now. “I’m going to go with a lot.”

“Suddenly I see where the child gets it from,” the man says. “You would be Phillip’s ‘Da’, then?”

“Yeah. Jack Frost. Um, who are you?” Jack asks, getting to his feet. The man looks pained, and he mutters something under his breath.

“Don’t worry, he does that a lot,” Pip says cheerfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last bits of the plot came together while I was writing this chapter, and I am looking forward to getting into it. I always did enjoy writing angst.
> 
> Also, for anyone curious: Yes, Pitch _did_ french braid Phillip's hair. He's operating off of somewhat rusty parenting instincts. Confronted with long hair, well... he had a rambunctious daughter who he was raising on his own. Certain things become habit, and I imagine for Pitch, hair-braiding was one of them.
> 
> And yes, I did include that bit just for the amusement of picturing Pitch braiding Pip's hair. I wish I could draw people better, because the mental image I have of it is hilarious and adorable.


	8. Chapter 8

“Would you be willing to mind Pip sometime?” Jack asks, carding through his sleeping son’s hair.

Pitch stares at Jack. “Did you, perhaps, miss the fact that I am the embodiment of _fear_?”

“So? Pip likes you, and he needs to interact with more than just me all the time,” Jack says. Pitch mutters something under his breath about winter spirits and appalling standards. Jack, who’d figured out pretty quick that Pip hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Pitch did that a lot, ignores it. Eventually, the muttering dies down, and Pitch sighs.

“When, why, and how long, Frost?”

***

“Hi, Pitch,” Phillip says shyly, clinging to Da’s hand. It’s different, somehow, planning to spend time with someone who isn’t Da or his friend in the clearing.

“Hello, Phillip,” Pitch says, one hand resting on the neck of one of his Nightmares. “You’re here to make another attempt at turning my hair grey, then?”

“Can I do that?” Phillip asks, peering up at Pitch’s dark hair. “How? I didn’t know I could make people turn colors.”

“It’s an expression, kiddo. Don’t worry about it.” Da muffles a snicker, and Pitch’s expression is very, very blank in a way that makes Phillip think he’s laughing. 

“Aww,” Phillip pouts, just a little. Being able to turn people colors would be interesting.

Pitch’s blank expression cracks, and he smiles. “Oh yes, he’s your son, Frost. The similarities are _blinding_.”

“Hey. I resemble that remark,” Da says with laugh. “Pip? You good to go? I’ll be back in the morning. This is just a trial run.”

“I’m good,” Phillip agrees, forcing himself to let go of Da’s hand. “Pitch’s nice.” More muttering from Pitch, which both Frosts ignore.

“I love you, kiddo,” Da says, and kisses his forehead. “Don’t give Pitch too much trouble. And remember to eat, you’re getting skinnier every day, I swear!”

“Love you too, Da. Be safe,” Phillip says, and lifts up his small bundle of things. “See you in the morning.”

Pitch lets him watch till Da becomes a speck against the afternoon sun, and then shows Phillip into his home. Lair? It seems like a lair.

“If you’re going to be staying here, there’s a few things I need to warn you about. I assume the usual admonishments not to get yourself killed by falling off the platforms, knocking over unstable piles, or drowning in any shallow puddles are taken as a given, and move on to the less immediate dangers.”

“Like?” Phillip asks, curious. He’d thought he’d found most of the dangers the last time he was here.

“The fearlings,” Pitch says, a grim set to his face. He leads Phillip to a door covered in thick shadows, and dismisses them with an irritated gesture. Inside, there’s a single walkway with a thick railing across a deep, lightless pit. “Stay close.”

Phillip nods, clinging to Pitch’s robes. “There’s something down there.” He can see it. The pit’s not lightless after all. It’s filled with moving shadows with glowing eyes.

“Yes. They’re called fearlings.” Pitch wraps his arms around Phillip’s shoulders as if to shield him from the _things_ in the pit. “They feed on terror, and they will consume anyone they can reach. I am – technically – one as well.”

“But you don’t feel anything like them!” Phillip protests. Pitch is frustration and bitter loneliness, sharp-tanged like winter greens, sweeter things hidden in the space left over. The black things, the fearlings, they’re salt and hunger like the dead of winter. Nothing like Pitch at all.

“I suppose that’s a compliment, but the fact remains.” Pitch says, and Phillip pretends not to hear the way his voice goes soft. 

“You _are_ different though,” Phillip insists. Pitch sighs.

“I became aware of myself as separate gradually,” Pitch explains, squeezing Phillip’s shoulders tightly. “The fearlings are a – collective creature, you could say. Something like a beehive. Individuals exist, but they’re also part of a single greater being. The new ones are the most clearly separate from the pack in terms of abilities and mannerisms, but paradoxically, the most deeply enmeshed in it. The oldest have been warped and blurred by the effect of the group mind, but they also are the most independent.”

“And you?” Phillip asks softly.

Pitch chuckles rustily. “And I am an exception. For reasons I have never known. I don’t know from which species I come, or who, if anyone, was left behind when I was taken. If I even had an origin before the fearlings, and did not arise spontaneously from the hive-mind. It happens sometimes.”

Phillip shivers, and Pitch ushers him off the walkover, sealing shut the doors behind them.

“Do you understand now why you must _never_ attempt to go in there without me?” Pitch asks.

“Yes, Pitch. I won’t.” Phillip huddles a little closer to Pitch’s side. “They’re not like Nightmares. They feel all wrong.”

“Nightmares are natural, even benign. They don’t require my management. The fearlings are different.” Pitch tilts his head to look at the door he’d sealed. “I suspect they were either created artificially, or later altered.”

“But why would someone even do that?” Phillip asks. He doesn’t understand. Why would anyone _want_ something like those things to exist?

“An accident, perhaps, or malice,” Pitch shrugs. “The worst monsters I have ever encountered were people, Phillip. Now come along. Enough of gothic horrors for the evening.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential TW: Discussion of the genocide of Native Americans, though not in graphic detail. Please skip the last section if you think it'll give you trouble.

Jack’s a little relieved to leave Pip with Pitch. It’s the first time since Pip was born that he can cut loose, knowing his son is in safe hands. Pitch, whatever the man thinks, isn’t totally unknown to Jack – he asked wind to follow him for a while, and everything he heard said that Pip was safe as houses with the boogeyman.

Which means Jack can finally get around to doing something he’s been planning for far too long. Break into the North Pole. His son is owed several years’ worth of undelivered Christmas presents, and Jack intends to collect for him.

He’s never been able to give his son much. Salvaged clothes, discarded toys, handmade gifts. Pip’s never had anything like the parchment-wrapped parcels Jack watches Santa deliver to children who aren’t his. The world’s unfair. Jack _knows_ that. He was born invisible and untouchable, damned to wander alone. Pip was born of his mother dying. Fair was never a possibility in their lives.

But that doesn’t mean he’ll stand by when his son is slighted. For Pip, Jack will take on the entire world. It scares him when he thinks about it too long, what he’d do if Pip was ever truly threatened. Stealing from Santa? 

Not even on his list of things to feel guilty about. Not even on his list of things to _consider_ feeling guilty about.

Wind sets him down on the roof above the workshop, lightly as dropping a leaf on a pond. Jack waves her off, and sets on working open the chimney cap. Irony, thy name is Jack Frost, he thinks with a grin, and shimmies down the chimney.

***

Phillip yawns, sagging against Pitch. “What time’zit?”

“Time for you to go to bed,” Pitch says, giving him a gentle push between his shoulder blades to get him moving. “Go brush your teeth, Toothiana would just love an excuse to yell at me.”

“Toothiana? Who’s that?” Phillip asks, starting walking again as Pitch prods him forward.

Pitch smiles like a well-fed barn cat. “No one of importance. Just a former associate.” Which is _weird_ , and he can tell Pitch is hiding something. Da gave him the lecture on ‘other people don’t work like us, don’t pry,’ but Phillip really wants to. On the other hand, he likes Pitch smiling, and bothering him will probably make him stop.

Phillip brushes his teeth, and Pitch braids his hair again, which is also weird, but good-weird. “Good night, Pitch,” he yawns, curling up under the ancient blanket.

Pitch inclines his head, like a king out of a fairytale. “Good night, Phillip. Sleep without dreams.”

Sometime in the middle of the night, Phillip is stirred awake by the sound of Pitch’s voice.

“ – You’ve never bothered with him before, Sanderson, why start now?” Pitch sneers, and he sounds tired to Phillip. Sad. It’s enough to make him stumble out of bed, towards the sound of his voice.

“Pitch, what’s going on?” Phillip asks, and then sees the golden…man…thing across the room. He swallows a yelp and darts to Pitch’s side. “Is that a fearling? It looks like it could be, what’s it doing here?”

Pitch stares at Phillip, and then starts laughing so hard he has to sit down, right there on the ground.

***  
Wedged just above the fireplace, Jack admits to himself he probably should have checked if anyone was here before trying to break in. Now he’s stuck listening to people shuffle about the unseen room.

“Look mate, I’m just saying, we need to be paying more attention to the colonies and the area around them,” Jack hears someone say with a strange, not quite British accent.

“We are doing what we can. We will reach others soon enough,” and that has to be Santa. Jack grinds his teeth.

“We get to the ones in stable living situations, but the ones on the edges get missed,” the other snaps. “The ankle-biter was living out in the woods with his white-haired _granddad_ , and he looked like he’d been missing meals for years. That’s the sort of child we need to get to!”

“My girls have scared a few children retrieving teeth,” a softer, feminine voice said. “The children in North America don’t all know the myths. And with the genocide attempts against the natives, their spirits are getting too weak to take care of their own. Their charges will be ours soon unless something changes.”

“We are known by Christian stories now,” Santa says, voice turning sad. “The native children do not believe in us, as is proper. We should not try to make them. Is stealing their identity, you understand?”

Not-quite-British snarls low in his throat. “Genocide, North! Better under our protection than dead!”

“We cannot promise anything. It is better they have their own spirits to comfort them, not foreign ones.” Santa sighs, and there’s a thump that’s probably him sitting down. “The others, the children on edge, I will try to do more for them. Will that suit, Bunny?”

Not-quite-British, ‘Bunny’ apparently, sighs too. “Hate this bloody situation.”

“I’ll get my girls to talk to the native spirits, maybe I can throw my protection in behind theirs,” feminine voice says.

“Better than nothing,” Bunny says. “I’m off, got work to do.”

“Same here, North,” feminine voice says apologetically. Goodbyes are said, and then there’s silence. Jack doesn’t move. Genocide attempts. People trying to kill the Indians. People are trying to kill his son’s people. They might attempt to kill _Pip_.

No. Not okay. Not okay at all. How many times have people from the colonies been near Pip? How many would have hurt him if they could?

Jack abandons his plan. He needs to get back to Pip and make sure he’s okay. _Right now_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author continues to delve into America's early, ugly history. Sorry. Those parts should be fairly minor after this, but Pitch and Jack insisted. Plus it let me flesh out the Guardians' relative influence.
> 
> And this thing keeps growing on me. Goddammit.

Sandy crosses his arms and scowls as the undersized boy edges behind Pitch, clinging to the laughing boogeyman’s robes. 

“No,” Pitch gasps between peals of cackling laughter, “Sanderson is not a fearling.”

The boy looks at Pitch skeptically. “But he’s got no bones! Look, you can see it,” he insists, gesturing at Sandy. Pitch looks as if he’s about to crack a rib trying not lose himself to hysterics.

“That’s because he’s the _sandman_ , Phillip,” Pitch says, and his voice is full of dry amusement. He rises to his feet, winding an arm around – Phillip’s, his name is Phillip – shoulders. “Sanderson Mansnoozie, embodiment of dreams.”

Sandy only barely manages not to stare. Because he has known Pitch has changed since he shot down Sandy’s ship, and even since the early days after he was freed from his ten thousand year stasis. But this is new. He would never have thought Pitch safe around a child, but the evidence was before his eyes. 

“Oh, I will treasure this memory forever,” Pitch says, smirking at Sandy. Sandy, who’d never subscribed to the idea of being an ‘adult,’ sticks his tongue out in response, which startles a giggle out of Phillip.

“And I believe you need to be in bed, child,” Pitch says, giving Sandy a pointed look as he ushers the boy from the room.

“But what about the sandman?” Sandy hears Phillip ask, voice still slightly fearful.

Pitch chuckles, his voice fading as they head down a dark hallway. “Don’t worry, he’s no match for the _boogeyman_ …”

When Pitch returns, still grinning, Sandy is waiting. He forms a question mark above his head.

“He’s the son of a colleague of mine, not that it’s any of your business,” Pitch says, crossing his arms. Sandy won’t even touch the part where a human child has been adopted by Pitch’s ‘colleague.’ The thought of some doubtlessly horrifying, nightmarish spirit awkwardly attempting to parent a human is incredibly funny. Instead, he resists rolling his eyes, and flickers through a quick series of images of children, laughing, playing, and most pointedly, sleeping.

Pitch scoffs. “European children are your business. Phillip was born to the rightful inhabitants of this land, and he was adopted by an elemental spirit. Twice over not yours.” 

_Not only European. They believe, but all children are under our protection._ Sandy’s symbols whirl, trusting that Pitch will keep up.

“Yes, but the Chinese don’t leave their teeth under their pillows for Toothiana, and babes in the Congo do not wait eagerly for North. And the native’s dreams are different here than the fluff and happy nonsense you spread.” Pitch sneers the last words, the lingering softness he had with Phillip evaporating.

He’s _worried_ Sandy realizes with some astonishment. Worried about the child, and what would happen if he allowed Sandy to influence him. Pitch is changing.

The realization is enough to soften Sandy’s resolve, and he tips his head to Pitch. Phillip is skinnier than he should be, all angles and bones, but otherwise, he seems healthy. More than that, he seems happy. The guardians can surely let one well-cared for child be left alone, can’t they?

***

It’s – four? Maybe three? – when Jack lands at the entrance to Pitch’s lair. Well, plummets, mostly. Like a stone. It’s been a long night.

“How is it, exactly, that neither you, nor your son are missing limbs?” Pitch asks, after a long moment of staring at Jack. 

Jack shrugs. “Luck, mostly, for me. I’m more careful with Pip.” The panic’s burned out, leaving mostly worry and stubborn resolve. “Have you heard anything about the settlers killing Indians? I heard something worrying.”

Pitch sighs. He looks worn, suddenly. “It’s the standard situation. Fear and hatred of the unknown, combined with the conviction of their own superiority.”

“So it’s true. It is a genocide,” Jack says with a shudder.

“Unfortunately. I can do little to stop it, since it’s fear that’s driving them.” Pitch rubs his hands against his robe, like he’s trying to wipe them clean. “This is about Phillip’s safety, I suppose?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty obvious he’s not European, and sometimes we go close to towns,” Jack explains.

Pitch shakes his head. “A single child is unlikely to provoke violence. The murders are . . . larger, in scope. Whole villages, not individuals.”

Jack winces. “That’s not really reassuring, Pitch.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Go see your son, I’m getting a headache from the fear you’re leaking.” Pitch pinches the bridge of his nose.


	11. Checking In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry about the delay, guys. Life (otherwise known as finals, gardening, and my new addiction to flight rising) got a little out of control. But at least the plot is picking up? Read carefully, and you'll probably get an idea of where I'm going with this. I think. I'd like to hear your guesses, if you guys are willing to share.

Pitch pinches the bridge of his nose, headache building. The fearlings have been unusually active since he told Phillip of them, and it’s taking more concentration than normal to hold the hive-mind in submission.

“Go,” he orders, waving his hand at the circling nightmares. “I’ll be fine. There’s the tribe – ” The hive mind shoves hard against his control, and he stumbles. “Damnation. The tribe currently seven miles from Prentisstown. Give them a scare, get them to move out.”

As soon as the mares turn and scatter, Pitch sinks to the ground, trembling. He’s covered in a fine sweat, and his vision blurs. “Well, this isn’t good,” he says to nobody, voice wry. Clutching the stone of the nearest wall, he rises to his feet.

 _At least,_ he thinks, _if the fearlings win, the nightmares won’t let them enjoy the victory for long._

***

Phillip sighs, leaning back against a nearby maple tree’s sun-warmed bark. “Da’s being all _strange_ again,” he complains. The maple’s leaves flutter in the still air, and Phillip scowls.

“It’s not that funny, you can stop laughing,” he says. The leaves still, but he can all but hear the continued snickering. He sticks his tongue out, and the almost-sound gets louder.

“He’s going out a lot, and we haven’t been near a town in months. I need more thread and a new needle,” Phillip explains. “I think he’s being an idiot again.” A breeze ruffles his hair. He sighs gustily, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s tried to keep his hair neat since Pitch braided it, but it’s a losing battle. Braiding your own hair is _hard_ , and his hands are shaky a lot of the time.

He shakes off the dark thoughts, and brightens. “Before I forget, I made you something! Let me show you, okay?” He rummages through his bag, eventually pulling out a long, coiled length of twine. All along it, he’d used thread to tie dangling feathers and brightly colored rocks, and even a few of the smooth glass pebbles the wind had brought him a few weeks back. At the center, he’d knotted the twine to form a loop, and hung a narrow jar from an apothecary.

“So you – or me, I guess, I dunno if you have hands – can put things in to show off,” he explains, grinning as he ties it carefully around the rock in the center of the clearing. “Do you like it?”

The sun brightens, and the air in the clearing warms. Phillip grins.

***

Bunny can’t sleep, memories of the pookan genocide a drumbeat in his head. The situation in the Americas isn’t unusual. Humans commit genocide. It’s just a fact. Bunny has seen them happen in the past, and he knows he’ll see more in the future.

But it never gets easier to watch. Bunny doesn’t want it to get easier. The day the stupid, senseless, _monstrous_ deaths don’t remind him of the deaths of his world, he’ll stop being himself. That’s the cost of hope. It hurts, each time it fails. But he’ll never stop hoping that _this_ time will be last.

He can’t do anything to stop it. He never can. But he’s got to do something.

***

Seraphina waits until Phillip is well away from the clearing before manifesting fully to examine the gift. She smiles, shaking her head. It’s not often one of her seasonal spirits adopts a child, but Jack is doing well with his boy.

“Don’t you say a _word_ ,” she warns the moon. “It’s not like you don’t spoil them too, and you know it. It’s not me that has moonbeams following them around every night.”

The moon beams back merrily. She’s tempted to imitate Phillip and stick her tongue out too, dignity be damned. 

***

It’s worse than Jack thought. He hadn’t realized. Hadn’t noticed, and he’s not sure he can forgive himself for that. There are so many people dead, too many of them children. And Jack is _not happy_.

The colonies are having a bad winter this year. And they’re going to continue to have bad winters for a long, long time. Jack can’t do much about the rest of the year. But he can keep the colonists (the _murderers_ ) stuck inside for as long as possible. 

The colonies are hurting his son’s people. Which means they’re hurting his people. He’s given the east coast easy winters in the past, but it’s time the colonies remember the dangers of the dark months of the year.

Jack’s smile is mean as he stirs a blizzard to life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sneaks in the back door with an update* I'm trying to finish up several of my fics before I get started on a new project, so hopefully there'll be more regular updates on this thing.

The winter that year is harsh. Far harsher than North has gotten accustomed to, these past easy decades. Snow high as a man's chest, in some places on the North American east coast. It has the feel of spirit work to North, and he dislikes it. There are, if not rules, social conventions. Unspoken etiquette, which all spirits keep to. Or most. There are always a few who flout it, and while normally North is sympathetic to that -

-children. Children will be effected by this, and North has little patience for things that will endanger them.

The storms center around New England, with Pennsylvania the least effected. Both, then, are likely homes for the one responsible for this. If they are lucky, it won't be Pennsylvania. That was where Pitch's tattered shade had fled after his defeat all those years ago. Shadows stirring there can never be good news.

The magic is heavy in the air, and it gets stronger as North approaches the eastern coast of the northern americas. Pennsylvania is empty of spirits when North stops there, but for a half-faded river soul and a formless collection of petty malice, easily banished.

New England proves more fruitful. There is a blizzard in progress, and the magic behind it is thick enough to overwhelm lesser spirits. North grits his teeth, and follows it, shielding his eyes from the stinging ice. The magic leads him back to an open patch in the woods, too small to be worthy of being called a clearing. The storm's heart is here, and the peace of the space is more disturbing than the hollowing of the winds behind him.

“Winter-worker, come out!” North demands.

The snow, drifting idly moments before, stirs into a fury. “No.” There's a figure, barely visible against the snow, slight and obscured by ice and wind and a thick covering of rime.

“We are having words!” North shouted over the wind.

The wind roars, and there's bitter laughter. “What are you doing here, Santa? Christmas isn't until next month.”

“You are being troublesome. This storm will kill!”

Sudden, fearful stillness as the storm stops in a moment. “Is that your concern? That it will kill? Where were you for the slaughters? For the children dying on the plains?” The figure demands.

Oh. North is sick to his belly. An indigenous spirit, avenging their dead. There is little North can say to that. “Death – death is not wiping out death. This is not fixing problem. Winter-worker – when will it end? The children do not deserve this.”

“The children -” How fragile the other seems in this moment. “All the children do not deserve what has happened. The bodies were so _small_ , St. Nicholas! So small, and I could do nothing! I came too late, realized too late, and they were dead! If the slaughter will not stop, than I will not stop visiting grief for grief.” The wind rises again. Soft at first but growing harsher by the moment. “There is no justice, but I will take vengeance.”

The figure's grief cuts like a knife, and North is sick with sorrow. What can he say? What can he do? “I – winter-worker, I understand your grief, but I cannot condone this.”

“I don't ask you to.” So cold, so small, so very lost. North had come to make things right, but there is no right to be made of this situation. Only grief to be felt, and the dead to be mourned.

He bows his head. “I am sorry, winter-worker. I will leave you to your mourning.”

North is young for a spirit, but he feels ancient in this moment, caught in this moment of pain and grief. He closes his eyes, unable to bear the ache of helplessness.

A gentle breeze brushes his face, followed by chill fingers. “I -” The winter spirit makes a sound of grief. “I do not blame you. I know you are trying too. Someday things will be bettter.”

By the time North opens his eyes, the storm – and its maker, are gone.

***

“Hey, kiddo,” Da says as he drops to the ground. “Everything go okay while I was gone?”

“Yeah. I'm working on mending some of the blankets.” He holds them up for inspection, eying his Da at the same time. Da's hair was full of ice, and his cloak was covered in it. “What happened?”

“Blizzard up in New England got somebody tetchy.” Da grins weakly There's pain in his eyes Phillip is growing too-familiar, that he knows Da doesn't want him to see. “I got to play boogieman.”

Phillip rolls his eyes, playing along. “You're terrible, Da.”

“Oh! That stings,” Da says, clutching his chest dramatically. “I am felled by a traitorous blow!”

Phillip snickers as he gets to his feet. “Make that ridiculous.” He hugs Da, trying to press comfort and love into his father's skin.

Da hugs him back tightly. “I love you, Pip. You know that, right? I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I know, Da. Don't worry.” Something big has happened, something to do with whatever Da is hiding from him. “Are _you_ alright?”

“I will be. This is just – it's a mess, Pip, and I'm not sure how to fix it.” Da looks him in the eye, a strange, serious expression on his face. “Have you heard about the massacres from Pitch?”

Phillip's stomach turns to lead. So this is what Da has been hiding. It's worse than he thought. “Massacres?”

Da hesitates, and runs a hand through his ice-coated hair. He sighs, and says after a long moment, “the settlers are killing the natives.”

The words make him feel very small and very frightened. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. I don't know what's going to happen,” Da says. His grip tightens on Phillip's shoulder. “Stay away from the settlers' lands, alright?”

Phillip nods meekly. “I will, Da.” The fear curdling in his belly would ensure that even if his Da hadn't asked it of him. Death is – it's so final, an ending that can't be changed. Da has told him about his mum, what he little he knows, and what shakes Phillip is the permanence of it. No do overs. No second chances. Just an empty shell and the undone strings of every plan someone ever made.

 

 

 


End file.
